


Worth A Thousand

by coffeebuddha, rispacooper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Not Underage, Oral Sex, Photography, Student-Teacher Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is a bad idea,” Finstock says. He fidgets on the folding chair Greenberg had directed him to and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I'm serious, this is the sort of shit that will land me in serious trouble.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth A Thousand

“Just one picture,” Greenberg says as he shuffles back and forth to 'find the best angle' or some shit.

“This is a bad idea,” Finstock says. He fidgets on the folding chair Greenberg had directed him to and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I'm serious, this is the sort of shit that will land me in serious trouble.”

“You worry too much.” Greenberg's watching him through the viewfinder, and Finstock can feel the slow curl of heat in his stomach that he can never seem to stamp out when those eyes are on him starting to unfurl.

“No, I think I worry exactly the right amount considering it's my ass they'd throw in jail.”

“I'm eighteen,” Greenberg points out. “Worst case, you'd get fired and not be able to get another job.”

“Yeah,” Finstock sneers. “Because that's so much better.”

Greenberg smirks at him and snaps a picture. “You totally think I'm worth it.”

“Smug bastard,” Finstock says, but he doesn't deny it.

“Your bastard,” Greenberg says and takes another picture. He pauses to look at the display for a moment and his lips kick up at the corners in a small smile. “How about this, we don't delete the pictures, but the memory card goes home with you.”

“Doesn't that defeat the whole point,” Finstock asks. He's starting to relax almost against his will, his legs splaying a little and his arms hanging loosely. Greenberg lifts his camera again and takes another picture with an almost defiant click.

“Nah,” Greenberg says. “I mostly like knowing that you let me take them. It's not like I can't just look at you whenever I want to.” He looks up from behind his camera to wink cheesily, and Finstock rolls his eyes. “Besides,” he says as he unloops the camera strap from around his neck and carefully places it on the table next to him. “Now you have something to give me when I graduate.”

Finstock grins at him and lets his legs fall open a little wider. “You only want a picture? I thought I was giving you a hell of a lot more than that.”

Five seconds later, Greenberg is on his knees, gently pushing Finstock’s legs further apart so that he can get closer between them. He watches Finstock from under his eyelashes as he slowly works his zipper down and can’t quite bite back his pleased smile when he feels Finstock’s cock twitch against his fingers through the denim.

He’s vicious though, first making Finstock wait while he posed him, looked at him, studied him, ignoring his embarrassment and impatience and discomfort and just looking his fill, and now he is going to make him wait some more, make him watch as Greenberg pauses with his mouth over his cock.

He changes course at the last moment, pressing his lips to Finstock’s hipbone. He skates his fingers down over his stomach where he’s just starting to go a little soft, licks a stripe up the crease of his thigh, sucks a mark below his belly button. And Finstock is squirming, fingers white where they’re gripping the chair, and they both knows he’s about three seconds away from a rant that’s only going to make Greenberg slow down more.

Greenberg's made no secret that loves Finstock every way he can get him, but his favorite is when he’s completely at his mercy and can’t do a fucking thing about it, because if Finstock tries to hurry him, they both know he’ll stop.

Finstock is thinking all these things while Greenberg makes him wait, confusing things he wants to say and things to distract himself and his grip keeps getting tighter on the chair, because practice should make him better at this. He firmly believes in practice, that with enough practice he will be able to hold on longer, to not say anything, but the wet tongue at his navel has him breathing hard and swearing at the ceiling, “Damn it, Greenberg, touch my cock now,” and then muttering a stream of profanities when Greenberg sits back on his knees and runs a hand over his own cock. Finstock doesn't even know when he got it out, but he's not about to complain.

“No,” Greenberg says, only the flush creeping up his neck and the slight hitch in his voice betraying that he’s not completely composed. His hand is slow and steady; the tip is already beading with precome, and Greenberg drags his fingers through it with a soft hiss and slicks it down his cock. “If you’re going to get all greedy, then maybe you need to take a break.”

“Greenberg,” Finstock grinds out. He can’t keep his hips from jerking up a little when Greenberg bites his lip, but he stills at the glare that gets him.

“Be good,” Greenberg says, twisting his wrist a little on the upstroke, and Finstock knows exactly how good that feels and he has to bite his own lip against a groan. “Or I won’t even let you watch.”

“Oh I can be good, you little punk.” He has the right to be angry and growls the words. If he has one weapon here, it’s that Greenberg loves how much he wants him. He practically purrs at the idea that Finstock can’t control himself and if there is one thing Finstock knows it is how to take victory in a defeat. He wets his mouth and swears as filthily as he can manage.

“Get that goddamn cock in my mouth now.”

Greenberg rocks forward. His pants are pushed down tight and awkward around his thighs and he has to catch himself with one hand on Finstock’s knee and the other on his waist to keep from faceplanting, but Finstock just grunts at the contact and spreads his legs wider.

“Well, since you asked so nicely, I should really do _something_ for you,” he mutters, and licks a slow line up the underside of Finstock’s dick before smirking at Finstock again and swallowing him down, easy and smooth, not stopping until his nose is pressed against Finstock’s skin.

Not what he’d planned but fucking insanely good just the same. He curls his fingers into Greenberg’s hair and pulls hard, punishing and begging for more, and swallows the spit in his otherwise empty mouth. It won’t be for long. He’s going to spill into Greenberg’s throat and then drag him up to suck him off, and thinking about it is enough to make him thrust into Greenberg’s mouth. Greenberg is going to fuck his face, just like this, maybe a little harder, only he won’t let Finstock swallow. He wants it on his face.

Greenberg hollows his cheeks, hums low in his throat, and looks up at Finstock with dark, hot eyes, and that’s all she fucking wrote. He’s gone, coming so hard he thinks he might black out a little bit. There will probably be bruises smudged into Greenberg’s jawline where Finstock grabbed at him, and where he’d usually be worried about that, now all he wants is to fall off the chair to his knees and suck them darker.

“Good,’ Greenberg slurs. There’s a smear of come on his lip, slipping down his chin, and he shivers under Finstock’s hands when he darts his tongue out to lick it off. “Always taste so good.”

Greenberg loops his arms around Finstock’s waist and licks at Finstock’s soft dick. He’s as loose and pliable as if he’s just gotten off himself, and Finstock loves that having a cock in his mouth can reduce him to this kind of a blissed out state. He cards his fingers through his hair, scratching a little when Greenberg leans into it, and lets Greenberg nuzzle at his stomach for a few minutes before fisting a handful of his hair and tipping his head back.

“My turn,” Finstock says.

Sometimes at home, he could get away with being gentle, coaxing Greenberg up to his feet and then letting him fall forward so the couch or the bed could take his weight. But they aren’t at home, and that isn’t how you treat someone like Greenberg when they’ve treated you so well, it isn’t what he wants. So Finstock clears his throat and barks, “Get on your goddamn feet, Greenberg,” and does his best to maintain his glare when Greenberg gives him this turned on, pitiful little moan that lets him know how much he likes it.

He wants to pet him some more, but it feels like petting him when he snaps, “Faster, Greenberg,” because Greenberg shivers and gets to his feet and leans in to him. His hands slide over Finstock’s shoulders and he tilts his head back to look at him through heavy-lidded eyes and he inches his cock closer to his mouth with an angry little hiss. His fingers dig into Finstock’s shirt when Finstock grunts at him and yanks him closer so that he can suck down his cock.

“Finstock.” It’s all that he says, a desperate little whisper, like Finstock has reduced him to this, and it’s an act and it’s real and it makes Finstock curl his hands against the kid’s hipbones hard enough to bruise and then slowly trace over the bruises.

He doesn’t try to draw it out or anything. There’ll be time for that later, and Greenberg is stupidly young and already wound up; as in control as he tries to act, he’s not going to last long even if he wanted to. Not that Finstock thinks he wants to.

So he doesn’t worry about going slow, he just goes, fast and dirty and wet. Pulls back enough to tongue at Greenberg’s slit, then sinks back down until his lips hit the top of his fist. He gets a fast rhythm going, and it’s fast enough that he’s starting to feel a little dizzy with it—though that could be the stretch and burn, the taste and smell, all those little things that threaten to pull him under, and fuck but he’s got to stop teasing Greenberg about how much he likes to suck cock when he’s just as bad—and Greenberg’s fingers practically knead at his shoulders at a matching pace.

“Finstock,” Greenberg pants. When Finstock glances up, his eyes are screwed shut and there’s a thin sheen of sweat making his skin glow under the harsh light, and he’s fucking beautiful and depraved all at once. Finstock moves his hand to Greenberg’s hip, slides down farther, and swallows, and Greenberg groans out a breathy little, “ _Coach_.”

That shouldn’t be hot, it _shouldn’t_ , but it is. Finstock is so fucking screwed.

“You dirty little bitch, Greenberg.” It doesn’t come out as cranky as he imagines himself saying it, it comes out so soft that Finstock is embarrassed for himself. He can protest all he wants but he’s wrapped around Greenberg’s finger and they both know it. But Greenberg sinks down against him after he comes, falling into his lap to breathe against his neck, and he shakes until Finstock puts a hand to his back to steady him. It’s peaceful and disgustingly sweet for a moment, and then Greenberg grins so slyly that Finstock can _sense_ the trouble he is about to cause, the scheming of his bastard little Greenberg mind.

“I love you too, Cupcake,” he whispers, and then the son of a bitch laughs when Finstock growls for him to shut up and then kisses him to make sure he actually does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as a comment fic on [Tumblr](http://coffeebuddha.tumblr.com/post/31712891030/thealmightyris-coffeebuddha).


End file.
